


Things Mended

by Lythlyra



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2011-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:59:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lythlyra/pseuds/Lythlyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate doesn't come down for breakfast. What starts out as a passing tease from Sigrun -- Did you two stayed up late again? -- soon has him noticing just how un-Nate-like it is. (Nathaniel/Anders slash)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Mended

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iapetus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iapetus/gifts).



> I offered Iapetus some "feel better" fic, and she requested sick!Nathaniel with Anders looking after him. This is for her.

Nate doesn't come down for breakfast. What starts out as a passing tease from Sigrun -- _Did you two stayed up late again_? -- soon has him noticing just how un-Nate-like it is.

He's always up before Anders is -- Anders, who digs his feet in and burrows beneath pillows and rolls around in blankets until he's given incentive or threatened, whichever happens first -- but here he is, seated between Sigrun and Oghren and decidedly _Nate-less_.

Eventually, the Commander is just as curious and sends him back up to check in on him. Anders doesn't bother to knock, bursting in and flopping in the space on the bed that's occasionally and mostly his, whenever he decides to sneak in after hours.

There's a surly lump of blankets and a slip of dark hair fanning out from beneath them, and he feels like he's fighting with Nate more than he is prying blankets loose. "Alright, alright. You win. I'm here."

When he receives only a raspy grumble, when the blankets finally slacken, he sees just why Nate is holed up here -- ashen pale, a feverish flush and glaze to his eyes, and his _breathing_.

There are instincts -- healer's instincts -- but then there are the _I can't believe you were actually this stubborn_ instincts, too, and he wars with which one will actually win for just a moment.

Ultimately, he settles for something in between.

"Doing your best impression of Justice-in-a-corpse, I see. It's a good look for you."

"Anders." And really, as far as reprimands go, he hears far more effective ones from Ser Pounce-a-lot -- which means it's exactly enough for Anders to offer a half-grin.

"Fine, fine. I can skip the boring lecture about you skulking around and hiding it if you let me look you over."

He sees the cogs whirring behind Nate's eyes, the way he matches up how ill he's feeling with how much he wants to ignore that he is. Eventually -- and thankfully -- good sense wins out.

Anders feels with magic and touch, pressing against too-warm skin and feeling at pulse points, listening to the draw and rasp of breath; where that isn't enough, there is the tug of the Veil, the Fade, coiling and aware, seeking out what simple observation lacks.

"Well, the bad news is you're sick."

"Really?" Nate croaked dryly. "I hadn't noticed."

"But the good news is," Anders continued, unfazed, "you have your very own Circle-tested, Templar-disapproved mage here."

"I trust you're going to heal it, then."

"See, that's the thing. I, uh, can't."

"You can't," Nate says flatly, falling just short of a question.

"Magic isn't a _cure-all_ , you know. You can't go, _oh, well, today I feel like lopping off my head_ and then expect some finger-wiggling to fit it right back on."

"My head is perfectly intact. Whether or not it feels that way is another matter."

"Missing the point." At least that's a good sign. It's really what Nate does with that _logic thing_ he's so fond of. "Which is that some things just are. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and you're fetching even when you're glowering like that."

If possible, Nate looks a little bit more miserable, a little bit more exasperated. Anders is just this side of concerned, enough to squash the urge to point out how endearing it is.

"And before we're off to the land of impending sulking, symptoms -- those I can manage."

The rumbling noise, more a groan than anything else, is what Anders assumes to be agreement; he's gone before Nate can properly answer him.

\---

Nate isn't an intolerable patient. In fact, he's quiet in his suffering, through vial after vial, cup after cup, of medicinal herbs and teas. Anders thinks that it's another one of those _Howe things_ , but he can't imagine it any other way, either.

But he still gets worse before he gets better.

Anders is there with each spike of fever, applying cold cloth and even colder magic; Anders is there when Nate is too sick to eat, barely able to drink, because it all just comes back out again.

He's seen this a dozen times -- this is what his life is, _healing_ \-- but it's a strange brand of _frightening_ and self-doubt when his best efforts seem to fall short of helping. It's _Nate_ , who trusts and relies on him, and whatever he's going to do, it _has_ to be enough -- it has to be more than enough.

Just when he thinks that he's wrong, that he's missing something, somewhere, Nate finally sleeps -- the fever breaks -- but Anders stays hovering by his bedside.

\---

Anders wakes to the feeling of fingers. They're brushing over his half fallen hair, feathery and cautious, but he startles all the same.

"I'm up, I'm up."

Nate's frowning down at him from a nest of pillows -- all dutifully propped there at Anders' insistence after listening to him wheeze and cough -- and it takes only a few moments for the ache in his legs, his neck, to inform that his idea of sleeping involves kneeling next to and against the bed these days.

Anders knows that scowl -- the Scowl of Disapproval -- but he expertly cuts it off with something infinitely more important.

"How are you feeling?"

The pause gives time for Anders to see for himself -- color returning, breath easing, no longer scalding to the touch.

"Hungry," Nate finally says, if a little begrudging in acknowledging it.

But he eats the food that's brought up without another word. Pounce crawls onto the bed and circles around his shoulders in a display of practiced begging, and Anders is sure he sees Nate cave and share.

That's new -- and he wonders if it's something that will stay when the cold doesn't.

\---

Days later, Nate is up and dressing, making quick work of buckles and straps. Even with the haze of sleep still lingering, it's a sight that Anders can appreciate.

He's sure he should be protesting here, too, but he thinks Nate's tolerance for "sick days" is probably exhausted.

If Anders has any doubts, they're silenced when Nate catches the slightest of his movements -- reflexes that Anders just doesn't have, on form once again -- and walks closer, pressing a kiss atop his head.

He's warm, but he's healthy-warm, familliar-warm, _Nate-warm_ ; Anders realizes how much he misses it, touch that isn't concerned or purposeful, touch because it's wanted, needed. He has a feeling he isn't the only one.

He braces for the _thank you_ instead, standing in time to stifle it when it tries to roll off Nate's tongue. It's much better when it's lost against his own.


End file.
